


A Thing That Wants Joan

by fieryphrazes



Series: fieryfemlock [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Break Up, Established Relationship, F/F, Female John Watson, Female Sherlock Holmes, Femlock, Genderswap, Getting Back Together, Lesbian Character, Love Letters, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft To The Rescue, Pining, Post-Break Up, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Apologizes, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, there's a happy ending i swear, virginia woolf - Freeform, vita sackville-west - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23557720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fieryphrazes/pseuds/fieryphrazes
Summary: Joan had read her a letter, once, from some famous lesbian or another. Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to remember everything, but some part of it had stuck in her head, dormant. It wasn’t until Joan left that she realized she still remembered it -- and that it fit her, now.She was reduced to a thing that wants Joan.During an argument, Sherlock says something unforgivable. Cue months of pining, a Mycroft who doesn't understand at all, and a round of apologies that just could give Sherlock a second chance at happiness.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Joan Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: fieryfemlock [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1346743
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	A Thing That Wants Joan

**Author's Note:**

> Trying something different in terms of tense and formatting... let me know if it works for you!
> 
> This came pouring out of me at the most inconvenient time - 2am on a work night. Here I am, past 3am, posting it and hoping I'll finally be able to sleep!

Sherlock could almost feel it -- a fingertip ghosting along her leg, from ankle to hip bone. She always imagined it -- or was it a memory? -- when she laid like this, in bed on her side, top leg tucked over the covers. It was the only way to keep cool, she used to say to Joan, who would inhale sharply when she found Sherlock like that. That inhale, then the pressure of Joan sitting at the foot of the bed, one finger lightly tracing Sherlock’s ankle bone, moving up and up and up. 

Sherlock huffed and turned over, punching her pillow for good measure. Useless memories, she told herself, and tried to file it away somewhere -- she always tried to tuck Joan away somewhere unobtrusive, but she refused to stay put. The memories kept bleeding out, coloring everything else inside her head. 

It’s been far too long to keep going on like this, Mycroft had told her. It’s embarrassing, he said. Have some self-respect. Sherlock’s mouth had gone thin and white at that. She’d been furious. So mad that she stood up and walked out without a word.

Mycroft had come to the flat to apologize later. Sherlock theorized that allowing him the last word had given her away. 

She knew he was right. It had been too long. It was embarrassing. 

But she couldn’t stop. 

She couldn’t stop remembering, and thinking, and dwelling, and -- what was the word? -- pining. 

Joan had read her a letter, once, from some famous lesbian or another. Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to remember everything, but some part of it had stuck in her head, dormant. It wasn’t until Joan left that she realized she still remembered it -- and that it fit her, now.

She was reduced to a thing that wants Joan. 

Horribly inconvenient. Sherlock did nothing but work, but somehow nothing ever got done. Her mind was working agonizingly slowly. Unable to focus. No interest in true discovery anymore. 

She’d already discovered what she wanted, it seemed -- but what she wanted didn’t want her. Not anymore. 

So Sherlock lay in bed, wide awake, remembering (imagining?) something like tenderness. Something like happiness. 

In these moments, it was easy to admit to herself that she had been colossally stupid. She knew the exact moment she’d gone wrong. 

It was winter, Baker Street was dusted with snow, and Joan had come home with takeaway. She’d been smiling, brimming with plans. 

I’ve just had a brilliant idea, she said. It makes so much sense, I can’t believe you didn’t think of it. 

Sherlock had told her to spit it out already. 

We’ll have Christmas Eve at Harry’s, here in London, drive to Sussex Christmas afternoon, and make it up to your mum by staying a couple days after. She’ll be so pleased about that she won’t remember to be offended, Joan had explained with a grin. 

Sherlock couldn’t explain why she’d done it. Why she’d wrinkled her nose and said absolutely not. I will not spend any holidays with your family, let alone my own. Joan, you know I value my solitude. 

Solitude, Joan had scoffed. You’re the most attention-seeking brat I’ve ever met. 

Sherlock had known it was good-natured, had known Joan wouldn’t really poke at her like that. But something inside her coiled and then reared up, and then lashed out. 

She’d been cruel, and Joan had thrown her hands in the air and yelled, and Sherlock had yelled too, maybe even louder than Joan did. 

Why do you even care where we spend Christmas, Sherlock spit out. 

That’s what you do when you’re in love, Joan had bellowed. You figure out where to spend Christmas, so that you can spend it together. You make some tiny space in your life for the person you love. You give them one little piece of yourself that they can hold on to, so they don’t fucking drown in this crazy goddamn world! 

Sherlock had seen red. She’d known she shouldn’t say it. She felt the rational part of her brain floating over her body, watching the rest of her ruin her life. 

What makes you think I love you? 

Her voice had been ice cold. She knew immediately it was a mistake, that she would be unable to repair the damage. She’d ruined it. 

Joan had turned around and left. She’d never even taken her coat off. 

In the 6 months since, Sherlock had had plenty of time – too much, really – to dissect her own psyche, to find out why she’d denied being in love with Joan. It was so obvious to her now, so obscenely apparent, that she’d been consumed with love for Joan. It had dominated her life – in a way, it still did. 

It was hard to believe that she just… hadn’t known at the time. 

Around month 3, Sherlock came to the conclusion that she’d subconsciously been sabotaging herself. That the deepest corners of her brain found happiness terrifying, decided that depending on Joan for it would lead to ruin. She decided that her innermost doubts had overruled the rest of her mind, had forced her to ruin it. 

Every week or two, she’d have a new revelation, come to a new conclusion about herself. None of them mattered much anymore. It wasn’t as though she’d find someone new to try it with again. 

Even in her lowest moments, Sherlock did not allow herself to imagine that Joan would ever come back. 

It was a Tuesday afternoon when Mycroft came by Baker Street. Sherlock got out of bed to answer the door, and Mycroft had gone pale when he saw her. 

Sherlock ran a hand through her hair, realizing how messy it must be. She looked down at her wrist, thinner than it had ever been, even when she was using. She supposed that Mycroft had reason to be concerned. 

I have news, he said. An indication that things may be able to return to their previous state. 

Sherlock rolled her eyes. 

I doubt it, brother dear. 

Mycroft primly opened his briefcase and pulled out a few papers. See for yourself, he said. 

Sherlock snatched the papers – they were photos of Joan. Taken from a distance, but clear enough. Joan outside a coffee shop with a cup in hand. Walking into the clinic. Sitting on a park bench, staring into space. Sherlock threw the papers down on the coffee table. 

These don’t mean anything, she snarled. 

She’s unhappy, Mycroft said simply. She would consider coming back. 

Sherlock shook her head. Mycroft looked at her sadly. 

Whatever it is you did, I’m sure --- Sherlock didn’t let him finish. 

Don’t.

Her voice was fiercely quiet. 

Don’t make this even harder, Mycroft. 

He had gathered up the photos and left without another word. 

8 months, Sherlock’s internal clock told her. 8 months since anyone has touched you on purpose. 8 months since she looked at you. 8 months since you ruined your own goddamn life by being a coward. 

The hottest days of summer were past when the equilibrium was upset. Sherlock was leaving Lestrade’s office, was almost out of the Yard, when she heard Joan’s voice. She was on the phone, presumably with Lestrade, explaining she’d arrived. That Lestrade could meet her downstairs. 

Sherlock turned on her heel, intending to walk directly away, when Joan spotted her. 

Sherlock?

She sounded uncertain. Joan should never sound uncertain, Sherlock thought. It’s incompatible with everything about her. 

But she stopped walking and turned to face Joan. 

Hello, she said calmly. She quickly catalogued Joan – new shampoo, same shoes. Thinner. Dark circles. 

Hi. Joan still sounded hesitant. How’ve you been?

Horrid, Sherlock snapped. Now if you don’t mind, I was just leaving. 

She swept away without looking back. 

Lashing out is infantile, Sherlock told herself in the cab on the way home. It’s childish and you shouldn’t do it again. She was stern with herself. Not that this would happen again. 

Sherlock ignored the soft knock on the door. A soft knock meant an indecisive client, or worse yet, a fan. She kept her position on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. The knocking didn’t stop. 

Go away! She bellowed. 

Unlock the bloody door! was the reply. Sherlock shot up instantly. She ran to the door, but found herself unable to open it just yet. 

What do you want, she asked through the wood. On the other side, Joan sighed. 

We need to talk. 

Sherlock opened the door. 

Joan rubbed a hand on the back of her neck. She’s nervous, Sherlock thought. Why would she be nervous? 

Look, seeing you a few weeks ago, that was… it caught me off guard, Joan explained. I understand why you snapped like that. I guess we should have talked sooner. 

Sherlock did not dare to reply. She didn’t know yet what Joan wanted, and she wouldn’t risk replying until she knew. 

I wanted to say I’m sorry for shouting at you that day. And I wondered if there’s anything you wanted to say to me. 

Joan looked at Sherlock, full of expectation. Sherlock felt like two people trapped in the same body. One inhabitant was seeing red – furious that Joan would suggest she had something to apologize for. 

The other one – Sherlock hoped it was her real self – was frozen in fear, certain this was the most terrifying situation she’d ever been in. Joan, standing on the stairs, asking for an apology. 

I’m –

Sherlock wasn’t used to apologizing, and it showed. 

I said the worst possible thing I could have said, at that moment, and I don’t know why I did it, Sherlock said in one big breath. Of course I’m sorry. Of course. 

Joan looked up at her, not quite smiling, but not stony, either. 

You look like shit, by the way. 

Sherlock grimaced. 

I know, she said. Being miserable will do that. 

Joan seemed to hesitate. 

Is it work? She finally asked. 

Joan, Sherlock said, please don’t be deliberately obtuse. 

Joan bristled at that. 

I only mean that it’s obvious to everyone, everyone who ever saw us together, what has been wrong for the last 9 months, Sherlock said. You’re the only thing that has changed. 

Joan’s eyes went soft. She reached for Sherlock’s wrist. 

Please don’t touch me, Sherlock pleaded. Please don’t. 

I’ve been miserable too, Joan admitted. Barely sleeping, in a foul mood all the time. 

Sherlock just nodded. She’d been able to tell. 

Do you think it means something? Joan asked slyly. Sherlock gave her a sharp look, searching for her motive. 

But all she could see was Joan, playful. Joan, extending what felt suspiciously like an olive branch. 

Why did you come here? Sherlock asked. 

Joan squared her shoulders and gave Sherlock an honest look. 

I came to see if you want to fix this. 

Sherlock’s mouth fell open. 

Joan tapped softly on her shoulder. Sherlock, you haven’t said anything yet. It’s been – she checked her watch – three minutes. When Joan looked back up, Sherlock had tears in her eyes. 

Can you ask again? 

Joan smiled. 

Do you want to fix this? 

Sherlock nodded, and a few tears broke free. 

That’s all I want, she said. All I’ve wanted since – since.

She couldn’t finish the sentence. Joan smiled at her, and it was the most extraordinary thing. 

Joan, smiling. At Sherlock. 

Somehow they’d ended up wound together on the sofa, Sherlock’s eyes wet and mouth spilling out apologies. Joan wrapped her arms around her, pulling her close and kissing her temple. 

Finally, Sherlock asked. 

Why now? 

Joan had the decency to look sheepish. 

Well, I got some photos in the mail, she said. After we ran into each other at the Yard. You looked so unhappy… she trailed off. 

Sherlock smiled. 

Mycroft. 

**Author's Note:**

> The love letter quoted and used in the title was written by Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf. It's worth reading in its entirety!


End file.
